However, in the last couple of weeks the cold has really hit and particularly in the mornings you can feel it as soon as you swing out of bed. Then outside, just after 6am, I am seeing a solid layer of ice on parked cars, perhaps with the occasional early commuter busily scraping their windscreen clear of the overnight freeze. On my way to the gym I cycle past a billboard, one that has a digital clock and thermometer. This I would ignore all Summer, but now the game is to guess how cold it is. I’ve seen it showing just 2 degrees and I found myself thinking, yep it feels cold. Then a few days later the same sign showed 7 degrees and I agree, it is noticeably warmer. Today it showed 4 degrees and I was surprised – it felt more like 7. Which just shows that acclimatisation happens quickly.

Now Christmas is close and there is no sign of snow. Last year it dumped inches of snow naturally while we were out of the country. But we’re in London now, there are 10 days till Christmas, and of course it doesn’t look like snow at all.

I am probably the only one in the country with my fingers crossed – bring on the white Christmas.

Friday 16th December
This morning I woke to the familiar – yet rarely heard – sound of cars driving along a wet road. It being a Friday I would normally leave the bike at home. But today I felt like riding (having already had a day off this week too) and with the ever cooler conditions… well you never know.

Sure enough, the rain was falling slowly, yet heavily. On my thighs I could see ice crystals. The falling ice lit up brightly in my headlights, more than rain drops could, clearly there was sleet in the air. The further north I rode the sleet would fall ever slower. I began to see cars parked with mounds of white ice gathered around the base of the windscreen. Was it ice, or could it be…

When I arrived at the office to unlock the front gate. There I decided, this isn’t sleet anymore. It is very light snow/sleet. It certainly wasn’t cold enough for the snow to form on the ground. But I am sure it was falling, if only barely.

I do use the word compete in a perhaps misleading way. Whilst we did point our boat in the correct direction and were paddling with intent, we were sharing the water with Olympic hopefuls and shoe-ins alike and thus stood no chance of winning. None the less we got on the water and joined the queue. We started from number 345 and were far from being the last boat. I’d heard there could be as many as 500 crews or 2000 rowers taking on the course from Mortlake to Putney.

Before the start, boats line the banks upstream towards the start line. You take up your position in the queue in numerical order, edging your way to the start until it is your turn to go. With so many boats trying to stay in order while avoiding the inevitable blade (oar) clash on top of pre-race nerves, tension builds and builds until you are ready to explode out of the start.

Of course over such a long race you must pace yourself perfectly. Thus explosives starts are crowd pleasing but serve little use to your stamina. We paddled steadily towards the start, our cox calling on us to build the pressure and bring the tempo up. Before I knew it we were already on our way. Our start was good and we pushed away from Chiswick bridge. Putney was just over 7km away.

It wasn’t long after the start that I began to feel the sock on my right foot begin to slip. Slipping down under my heel. Which meant my heel began to slide up and out of my shoe. Being firmly attached by the feet to the boat is essential for stopping yourself during the full force of the leg drive. Being unattached means you keep sliding backwards with the force of the moving handle coming towards you.

Then it happened. My right heel slipped right out of the shoe. Immediately I felt I was unable to drive backwards as hard and then control my body enough to keep the stroke rate high. But it wasn’t the end of the world as my left foot was still attached. It was quite distracting which is not what you need when you are racing. Still, I carried on. There was no other option really. I had 3 guys behind me who were counting on me to hold the rhythm and tempo high, so I wasn’t going to let it affect me. Not as long as I still had one foot firmly attached.

But that didn’t last. We passed our rowing club house and rounded the bend under the Hammersmith bridge. It was just over half way and we’d been locked in a battle with two younger crews who had started in front of us. At this point we had rowed through them and were holding them back. They were helping us set our pace and we wanted to push away from them. It was around then my left foot began to slip. My one secure foot was no longer secure and it seemed like several strokes later that the heel came out of the shoe.

I was now rowing with heels out of both feet. We still had about 2 miles to go and no one else in my boat knew what had happened to me. I was struggling to keep the tempo high. We had held a constant rate of 31 strokes per minute and I refused to let that drop and let the crew down. So I pushed on and began to feel the full effects of rowing heels out. Anyone who has rowed a head race on the Thames knows that the stretch from Hammersmith to Putney is less than half race distance, but feels like it is about 3/4s. Lactic acid has replaced blood and oxygen in your body and it is begging you to ease off or stop. But it just is not done, you must not ease up or stop. You must drive on through the pain and dig deeper than you think you are capable of.

Finally we passed my “almost there” landmark which I think is about 1500m. At this point you switch off the safety that keeps you out of the red zone. You allow your body to climb up into the range of effort that is impossible to sustain for too long. It screams back at you, but your mind replies that it is ok as we are “almost there”.

With my heels still out of the shoes I saw familiar landmarks of the Putney clubs along the embankment. We were within 200m now. The two young crews were now long behind us. I brought the stroke rate up to 34 and we were in our sprint for home. The last meters and strokes seemed to take an age, but finally we crossed the line.

Our result was posted some hours later and much to the surprise of everyone, my boat came out on top of the club. We even beat a coxless four, which means we beat a boat that is theoretically faster as it isn’t dragging a lump of dead weight down the river.

I can’t say it was fun. But it was an experience for sure. One that I am set to pat in March in the 8s head. Next time I will be checking out the shoes before we get onto the river.

As wedding attendees, our part in this April wedding was slightly different than the norm.  There was quite a long wait involved you see, so we came prepared.  We decided to picnic with scones, croissants, juice and champagne – a champagne breakfast if you will.  The only thing was, there were quite a few other people invited as well, so it was sort of a standing picnic.  We set out at 6.30 in the morning to ensure we wouldn’t be late.  We dressed appropriately for the occasion (hats – tick) and were suitably excited, despite the bleary hour of the day.  We arrived with a small group of friends and managed to secure a good spot.  We then waited for the festivities to begin.

I know all weddings are beautiful but I must say this seemed to be a particularly spectacular day.  The atmosphere was quite intimate, there were about 50 people or so, and we certainly felt honoured to be a part of it all.  The afternoon began with a church ceremony in Balham, south London.  It had all the elements of what I imagined a classic English ceremony would have, without being dull or pompous.  The first person we saw was a very dashing, but also nervous, Andy.  We moved into the church and were greeted gravely by two young ushers.  We picked our pew and looked around excitedly.  The church was a hush except for the organist who managed to get through his repertoire fairly well, give or take a few charming notes!  The guests trickled in until finally everybody was present.  The organ blared forth a rather majestic chord and everyone was sure this was the moment.  But no!  It was a fake out!  There were a few nervous chuckles as everybody waited for the bride to enter.  Then came the time, and Lucy walked down the aisle on the arm of her brother, flanked by two small bridesmaids and her maid of honour.  She was stunning in an ivory Vera Wang gown with a black jewelled waist sash.  The maid of honour wore black and the bridesmaids, ivory.  Lucy’s brother was in tails, and the whole procession was gorgeous.

The ceremony passed without a hitch (which seems ironic), except for Sam shhhhush-ing me in the hymns.  Hey – I like to sing, OK?  And I knew these hymns, so I felt it only right to join in with enthusiasm.  Then, they were married… and after greeting everybody outside the church, it was time for the happy couple to head off for some photos.  Meanwhile, the guests’ transportation arrived, in the form of an old 1959 red double-decker bus… brilliant!

Our bus received many a stare and a wave as we trundled through south London and headed to Hampton Court Palace, where the reception was being held.  By this stage, the weather had decided to play nice, and it had turned into a balmy, sunny afternoon.  After champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the garden, we lined up to greet the bride and groom again as we moved into the reception room.  All guests were actually announced!  It was just the right mix of formal and fun.  The room was gorgeous, with painted scenes from wall to ceiling and large bouquets of roses on each of the 5 round tables.  The windows were open and the sun was setting across the river… perfect.  After a wonderful meal and some heartfelt speeches, it was time to proceed to the marquee outside, complete with a band and mood lighting.  The bride and groom took to the black and white check dance floor for the first dance, and then everybody piled in to finish off a great day with some choice dance moves!

When it was time to say goodbye, the guests joined hands and made an archway for the newlyweds to run through.  As they drove off into the night, all and sundry remarked on what a beautiful day it had been.  Congratulations Lucy and Andy!

Coincidentally the Cambridge folk festival is held in Cambridge, just north of London. For more than 30 years now it has been operated each year by the local council, this despite innumerable, hostile takeover attempts by commercial promoters. Cambridge (or Came-bo as it is known to us) is not like a typical music festival. Sure there are lots of people, dodgy food vendors (I mean the food is dodgy, not the vendors, or though perhaps the two are inextricably connected) and the ubiquitous box of filth that somehow represents acceptable human standards for toileting. But at Cambo there is never too many people, the food is actually pretty good and the toilets, well I have seen far worse in my years. However, now imagine a festival where the queue lengths, if even present, are manageable and all the people are friendly (even security) and conduct themselves somewhere between relaxed and barely awake throughout the day.

Also, unlike many festivals, I think it is fair to say that the punters at Cambridge are musicians, very musical or know someone very well who is a musician. This manifests in a much higher level of respect and appreciation during each performance, as well as an open mind for previously unknown artists.

Musically there are more bouzouki, fiddle and squeeze box players gathered than I would have thought necessary in any modern, developed society. It seems that even today in an age when a vocal pitch synthesizer might be considered to be a legitimate instrument, thankfully some people like to sing and play old-school style, o-naturale (or “natural” for you non-French speakers), what you see really is what you get. Moreover there are clearly lots of people who are excited to see and hear such a performance. In fact, the crowds get quite enthused and cheer loudly at the simplest things, such as when the tempo steps up in a particularly complex piece played on a fiddle. Now there is not much I don’t know about the fiddle and Martin Hayes (of Martin Hayes/Dennis Cahill fame) is probably the best I have seen – worth a few minutes of company time on You Tube.

Erin and I camped again this year, as has become our tradition. Our group of friends (14 in total with ages ranging from mid twenties up to I-dare-not-guess-nor-repeat) I believe now have become the festival within the festival. We set up our camp, or HQ, in the same area as the previous year, but this time we occupied quite an expansive space. Especially as each couple, or single person, was housed in family size accommodation, with no more than 2 people per tent. Some might call it “glamping”, but I think that is relative to one’s personal minimum standards. I would expect much more if I was after a luxury campsite, eg: plumbing, electricity and servants. Lets just call it comfy outdoor living for the privileged few who insist on a tent you can stand up in.

Once inside the festival proper we placed our seats in the same place as last year, the 14 chairs forming a large circle. Where we sit commemorates, and has been named in memory of, a man who passed away a few years ago. It was where he sat every year and so it will be where we sit too. The fact is, it is a strategic position, perfectly placed between the two main stages, near enough to food, drink and toilets as well as the exit to our tents. Traditions need not be tiresome chores.

So we did arrive on Thursday morning, not returning home until Monday morning. In between we relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine (when it was on offer), saw plenty of great music, ate really well and I even managed to squeeze in a few games of squash.

Let me explain. The festival does not operate a fitness and leisure centre (though it is worth proposing). I had the inspired idea to squeeze in some fitness amongst the relentless relaxation. So I’d researched squash courts in Cambridge and found a place we could turn up to play some squash, and as a bonus use the showers (and clean toilets) on site. Doing this in the morning each day kick-started my day perfectly. Of course, not all of the 12 in our group were interested. On day 1 we had 4 players (including Erin), on the 2nd and 3rd days there was only 2. But 2 is enough for a game and I’m really glad we did it.

After the festival I took an extra couple of days off work, taking advantage of the down turn in stress to enjoy some relaxation at home. In all I had only a week off and it made a huge difference to my mindset. At last I felt chilled out and calm. I am sure if it had been any other festival I would have come home exhausted and stressed out completely. Such is the magical power of Cambridge.

I approached the Royal Albert Hall from the south.  I hadn’t even reached the building yet when I noticed a lot of people sitting on the ground, standing against a wall, reading books, chatting, looking bored.  Hmmm, I thought to myself.  This looks like a queue.  Oh dear!  It was already stretching around the corner and down the length of another building.  Not to worry.  Perhaps this was not going to be our queue?  But… it was.  They do like a good queue in England, I’ll give them that.

My friend found me in the queue and by this stage, although it was moving, I had my doubts about whether we would make it in.  However, eventually, to our delight, we reached the hall and paid for our tickets, but not before randomly bumping into another student we went to the Con with and saying hello…  it seems we are everywhere!

We walked into the arena and found that it wasn’t as rammed as we thought it would be… There was a bit of space.  Some people were sitting on the ground, more so towards the back of the circle, one couple had even bought a picnic blanket with them.  Now that is preparation.  We stood up until the orchestra and conductor were on stage and the music began, then we sat down.  At that time we could only really see percussionists and a few double bassists anyway, so there didn’t seem much point in standing until we were stiff.

We sat down and listened.  The music was brilliant of course.  It was Mahler’s 9th Symphony.  I was familiar with the first movement and that was about it.  It was a new piece to my friend as well and we both enjoyed it.  It is quite a long piece – an hour and a half – so there was no interval.  As I sat cross legged on the floor I looked around at all the people seated in the hall.  The concert was sold out.  Yes, they looked a little more comfortable than we did, and they could probably see the stage, but as I closed my eyes, I knew exactly which players were doing what, and actually I was able to concentrate on the music more – so in the end it really didn’t matter in the slightest.  I opened my eyes and looked at the punters again.  We had ‘bought’ the same concert they had, but for a mere 5pounds – it seemed like a bargain!

I will admit to being occasionally distracted by people-watching the others in the arena.  Those who were standing began to transfer their weight from foot to foot more rapidly as the concert went along.  By this stage, quite a few of the people who were sitting had actually lay down and were now completely horizontal, eyes closed and relaxed.  One man lying down near us fancied himself as some kind of conductor and would occasionally raise his hands (not quite) in time to the swell of the music and drop them down again once the urge had sufficiently passed him by.  My friend and I could not quite suppress a smile but would then let our attention wander back to the music itself.

All in all, it was a unique concert going experience, in one of the most magnificent music venues I’ve ever been to, and I think I would definitely do it again.  But next time, I’ll be taking my picnic blanket!

I have sewn before, but that was many years ago now, in fact it was about 13 years ago.  Woah.  So I’m hoping it’s just like riding a bike, although, I have also fallen off bikes in the past (I’m talking bicycles here, not big beautiful sports bikes*) so we’ll have to wait and see.

Anyway… I feel very excited.  There has actually been a lot of talk on my part about getting a sewing machine for quite a while now, it’s been a little dream of mine for at least 5 years, maybe more.  It seemed to be floating around on the One Day list, and I’m glad to report that day is now imminent.  One of my favourite dresses is a dress my Mum gave to me, which was made by her mother out of fabric her gran bought for her.  It is really special, and I hope that I can start making special things like that to pass onto my own children some day.

Meanwhile, who can believe that it is July?  I certainly cannot.  This year is flying by at incredible speed and we are now looking forward to the Cambridge Folk Festival at the end of this month.  We’re keeping an eye on the artist line up and starting to pick out a few favourites that we definitely both want to see, and the pickings are looking good so far!

Speaking of music, I have a concert later on today and I must finish this and go and do a proper warm up.  I had a great chat this week with our new downstairs neighbours.  Not only do they find my trumpet practice non-offensive, they actually like it!  Apparently it is really nice to hear somebody playing some ‘real music’ and in this case, that means me.  Hooray.

*Thinly veiled attempt to win brownie points with The Husband.

It did not pan out that way. It was not more than 9 miles to the destination and involved traversing on one road – the A3. I found the start of the A3 easily, but barely a mile down the road (when I expected there to be another 6 to go) I ran out of road. I basically had to use my bush craft and vaguely guide myself across South London. 8 miles out of traffic might have taken half an hour. But that Saturday morning, with all the traffic of any rush hour, and my lack of navigational skill – it took nearly an hour and a half. I needed another solution.

So I thought I’d try out my bicycle GPS. When on the bicycle this device has proven to be very peculiar if not totally ridiculous in its route planning. So I had little faith of it working when on a motorcycle. Luckily it actually has a car/motorcycle mode which I quickly engaged. In all the device has proven extremely useful. But it cannot, nor I expect can anything or anyone, really figure out London’s road network and in particular the comedic signage (or lack thereof). Signs do not seem specific or appropriate in any case. The traffic signs are just there to tease and confuse you. I recently spent 20 mins circulating a roundabout looking for the exit to the A406 that was clearly marked on the entry, but nothing on any exit?

Now factor that into a cross city traverse, from North to East London then onto home in West London. I undertook this quest at the worst time possible, being rush hour on Friday afternoon. The odds for success were stacked against me. Add to this the fact I had left my wallet at home that morning, with only a borrowed 10 pound note in my pocket and the remnants of a tank of petrol bringing the fuel level warning light into action. I set out from work nervously.

The trip down to East London went smoothly enough. The fuel light had been on consistently for a few minutes so I stopped to put in 10 pound of petrol. Thus exhausting my cash reserves in the process. I made it to the East, following the GPS all the way. Then I instructed the GPS to “Go Home”, it calculated a course and so I set out. Unsure of how much fuel I had left I could only estimate enough to get home in reasonably bad traffic by an approximately direct route. In other words, my fingers were firmly crossed.

It started well, the GPS directing me towards central London as it had done previously. Then the crucial turn South towards the river loomed. It lay on a junction where the road split 2 ways and the fork I should take was not entirely clear. I started to panic as the urgency of the traffic pushed me forward, rushing my thought process as I tried to interpret the hopelessly small map on my GPS. But before I could decide which way to go I realised I no longer had a choice, the traffic swamping all about me and pushing me to the North, too far North and I missed my turn. Fear not, I can just take the next left South and get back to where I need to be.

Or not. The labyrinth of city roads swallowed me deeper into the centre of London. No roads to my left appeared to be anything more than service access around buildings. I realised immediately this meant I was going to be in central London traffic on a Friday evening. But as long as I had the GPS and enough fuel I saw this as a good opportunity to just enjoy riding the Ducati.

Well, that would have been fine if both the GPS and fuel had been in my favour. The longer I was in the traffic the more that big 996 cc twin cylinder thumped away bringing me closer to an empty tank, and an empty pocket. But it was the GPS that went first. Even the modestly tall buildings of London were more than adequate to limit my GPS reception. The accuracy (a phrase I am hesitant to use) began to fail hopelessly. The little location graphic now showed me riding right through the middle of a building. Then heading in the wrong direction, then a road nowhere near me. It erratically drew a new position like a hyperactive child armed with crayons and a bottle of red cordial. I was none too pleased. I continued West, or was that South. I had no idea.

While the GPS busied itself plotting routes for a journey I was neither on or ever likely to take I decided to take matters into my own hands. I can’t say I confidently pointed my nose West and forged ahead. The reality was I was essentially lost and just freestyling each navigational decision. This took me on a magical mystery tour of London, through the West-end (and I mean right through the middle of all the tiny cobbled streets and past the old theatres). I did loops around streets, sometimes passing the same people outside pubs and restaurants who must have thought I was showing off. Where in fact I was simply, desperately looking for a way out of the city.

Soon I found myself near Denmark Street, famously known for its guitar and music stores and so I knew where I was, but not where to go from here. The GPS also had an idea where I was and after a long delay drew a new course homewards. I could see Tottenham Court road on the screen and even I knew that went North? What was it thinking? I wanted to go West, not North. Then it stopped thinking entirely. In fact it stopped doing anything and just switched off. I new where Unsure of anything now I decided to try going North and so I turned up Tottenham court road.

At this moment the fuel warning light came back on and never before in the history of warning lights had one foretold a more ominous situation. Now I was geographically uncertain and low on fuel. Even if there had been an abundance of service stations in central London, without a penny in my pocket they would all be useless to me. So now I had to focus on finding a way home or face abandoning the bike in the city and catching a train home (in full motorcycle leathers) – this was not my first choice. I was very close to giving up entirely, hope was lost and so was I.

But then, it appeared. A sign. A real, actual, intelligible sign. A solid piece of metal, with a clearly marked arrow pointing to White City. Not only did I know where that was, but now (at long last) I knew I could get myself home. So I called Big Red to arms and steered to port, up onto the on-ramp, to the freeway and to a sight I still can’t believe. Before me was an empty road, every other rush hour driver having already made it home, leaving me to enjoy the stretch of road on Big Red in privacy. It couldn’t have been better, the sun was setting ahead of me as I rode on. Yes, like a B-grade western I was aboard my stallion, leaving the city behind me, riding alone into the sunset.

So last night I got to go out on my first little ride.  Nothing crazy, just a few minutes to the local supermarket and a quick toot around Chiswick.  Keeping it very domestic until proper gear has been procured, ie. some actual protective clothing.

Off we went and I could feel myself grinning from ear to ear within the helmet.  Ah yes!  I remember this.  This is fun!

So… perhaps Sam now has a partner in crime.  When we pulled up at the supermarket there was a girl sitting comfortably on a bike of her own, L plate on the back… could this be my future?  Hmmm… we’ll see!

Yes I am talking about those truly stunningly beautiful machines that are Ducati motorcycles. And now, I announce with enormous pride, I have one of my very own. In fact, I have one of the shape that is probably the best looking Ducati ever made. But also, some would argue (including me), the best looking motorcycle ever made. I refer of course to the Ducati 748, 916, 996 and 998 models that share the same, distinct and perfectly formed shape. First revealed at a Milan show in 1993 the shape of the Ducati superbike had changed and remained virtually untouched for 10 years. Now, after almost 20 years the classic superbike looks as good as it ever did. Even Ducati have admitted this, after moving to the 999 shape – which many purists never fell in love with – they have since returned to a shape in the 1098/1198 superbikes that looks much more like their older cousin.

I fell in love with the original 916 when I was in high-school in Sydney and it was love at first sight. I heard it first with its thundering exhaust, but once I turned to see it my eyes popped out of my head at the gleaming red that is synonymous with Italian exotica and all the flashy gold and silver which shouted premium quality/price tag. It was day one of a dream that would last half my life.

So now we are in London and geographically much closer to Italy. This means that the price of these lovely bikes in a whole lot cheaper than they are in Australia. And the secondhand market is packed full of these bikes, so when Erin and I started to talk about vehicles I naturally thought about bikes and that naturally led to thinking about a Ducati.

Then came many painfully boring weeks for Erin while my mind switched entirely to finding “the one”. The first and last thing I would do every day, and a lot in the middle too, would be to scour on Ebay and Auto Trader for any new arrivals to the market. I had my heart broken a few times as several gems were stolen away from me. I did find a low mile 996 which looked like a showroom bike, I’d arranged to drive up and see it and spoken to the owner. But by the time the day came for me to go the bike was sold. I was demoralized.

In the end it was fortunate. Another machine, this time a 996S (The S does stand for a lot), came my way. I wasted no time and caught a train straight down to see it. It was a lovingly cared for bike, in the condition you’d expect for anyone who treasures these classic machines. Suffice to say I made an offer, it was accepted, I paid the deposit and then arranged to come back and collect it.

One complaint that is common for many riders of these bikes is the riding position. It has been referred to being a torture rack. This because of the additional weight on your wrists the bike expects from you in its racer boy position. But I just don’t get it. To me it is fine, just fine. If you don’t ride with locked arms, tight grip (which you’re not supposed to) and use some stomach muscles and legs to support your upper body – it’s actually quite comfortable.

So now it is a waiting game, my riding gear is on its way from Sydney now. Until that arrives I am reluctant to venture out anywhere that might put me on a motorway. Which means I am riding an Italian superbike to and from work now – which sounds like overkill because it really is. At least the traffic is not too bad on my commute. However, I have already crossed London more than once on the bike including a Friday end of day rush hour. The traffic is just as you can imagine, bumper to bumper up and down every road. How people do it in cars is a total mystery to me.